Lazy In Paris, Crazy In Love

It’s one of those Spring days in Paris where you just have to get out of the house: Tuesday.

As much as I know that the day is lovely from my run earlier, I feel crippled by laziness in a way that makes me ask “who’s running this program?” I read a few pages of a book, half-heartedly watched an episode of Sex And The City... even though I have seen it at least 4 times. I wonder if I am being influenced negatively by the consumerism in that show... are my own values strong enough to objectively enjoy such garbage?

The sun is shining down pretty nicely and I could walk along the Quay, meeting people and enjoying the sights, but can’t I just nap? Like a cat... they got all these lives, what’s the big deal? I tried meditating, but I think I just fell asleep, not without seriously observing my thoughts. Funny how this cat stuff really played out there, I was just chasing my tail in an attempt to pass through the worm hole, instead pass through my hole... that has worms? MEEEEE-YOW! I am going out side in nothing special, get ready Paris!

I sat at the Luxembourg Gardens reading David Sedaris: Me Talk Pretty One Day. The second half of the book is his account for the time he spent in Parisian movie theaters, mostly avoiding the culture and typical things you must do while living in Paris. I feel a kinship with this writer and simultaneously assume he might hate me if he ever met me. C’est la vie. I heard about the content of this book after I had already moved to Paris, preparing to write about my experiences in fresh light, only to find out someone older and more interesting did that a few years ago. Oh well, gotta do something to keep myself from talking to people.

On my way to the gardens I saw a woman with a sign that read “I’m hungry” (but in French). I was too, and short on cash, but I gave her a little over one euro. I should clarify that I never ever give money to people begging and have even been known to pick a fight with weaker boyfriends who have dared challenged my staunchness by example. “If I wanted to fuck Princess Diana, I’d be a lesbian” I’d explain, along with some well educated assumptions about what disease that money was going to enable. I did this for so long I didn’t even notice the rancor that came over me every time I passed someone with a sign. In my resolution to do more random acts of kindness I was pissed when I saw her there, all hungry and shit, but I gave her all my change, as opposed to just the .30- I gave the euro as well- but not without an internal fight that kept me against the wall opposite her for some time while I thought. She said thank you and I walked away thinking that she could at least buy a baguette and I felt good... I mean really good, like “uh oh, Abbey,” because I was thinking about running into the super market and buying her a sandwich, then giving her my job... she seems qualified enough. I am short on funds, but giving her €1.30 is nothing but a reminder for me to be more mindful in what I spend on myself and enjoy that in which I do.

One of my favorite ways to avoid learning French is to sit around watching the American West Coast clock turn to noon, so I know when my ex is awake and available to “poke” me on Facebook. I recently asked him if he were “poking” anybody else on Facebook, or if I got special favor. He assured me, that it was a special thing between just the two of us... and my friend’s mom, who also “pokes” me. I moved to the most romantic city on Earth and look forward to getting poked in such a way that not only my ex-boyfriend can, but also my best friend’s slightly senile mother. She never hugged my friend when he was growing up, knowing this inside information regarding her aversion to physical contact, I always greet her with a long, tight hug. I don’t have the nerve to kiss her on the cheek, but if she ever visited Europe I definitely would. Until then, “poking” on Facebook should suffice every physical need I might ever have.

Brighton, Border Patrol and the Bodhi Tree

If you love the idea of traveling Europe and seeing London- you’ll love staying home! That’s because the border patrol in the UK are a bunch of U-cunts. I mean it, not just for alliteration. I guess the woman officer must have had an intuition for all the smack up my... luggage- my leg luggage, folks! EEEE ahhh EEEE ahhh (like a donkey braying and a woman enjoying a good shower) [very clever]

Actually, their biggest concern with me, was that I was going to be working. I felt like saying “look, I don’t even LIKE working.” That’s a lie though- I love it. I can’t get enough, which is why I went to Brighton, England for 9 days (although I am going to have to cut my trip short to get back to Paris to start working) to work. I’m not a lawyer here or anything weird like that. I am just doing the old drug mule thing and washing that back with a few stiff hand jobs at reasonable prices: immigrant hand jobs.

PS I am not really a prostitute guys... Not with my authority issues.

I brought more authority issues with me through border patrol than socks, so any attitude I got was upon myself, but I tried to imagine brown nosing an immigration officer, my compliments would probably come out more like this:

ME: Your ears look like you’ve had them pierced for a long time.

HER: Why are you here?

ME: I should ask you the same question [wink].

I almost didn’t make it in to the UK and told her to just send me back to America. I actually said this. Q: Where do I get off?! A: I got off in Brighton and was looking forward to a relaxing couple days by the sea. I was excited to eat fish and chips. I left my wallet on the bus.

I LEFT MY WALLET ON THE BUS! [I’m yelling at you now]

I managed to have £115 shipped to me via Western Union. That has to last me two weeks until a new card can get to me. So, I have to seriously get on the jerk train to Nob Town, where I get paid for my seat, but at discount prices because I didn’t bring the right clothes and body spray/ glitter. I look like a bouncer at a brothel more than a lady of the night.

To illustrate the last week for perspective; I booked the ticket to Brighton because I lost my job in Paris for locking myself out of the employer’s house while they were on vacation. It cost €300 ($432) to get through the antiquity of the home’s steal door. They changed their mind the same day and said I could stay. I told them to not pay me until the door was paid off. This was a fine idea, at the time, because I could manage and felt compelled to be accountable. I couldn’t bear telling them that after locking myself out of their house, I left my wallet on a bus on my way to escape the reality of Paris for 5 days before I returned happily and responsibly to work. No, just leave your kids with me- forget that I will probably forget their limbs in the elevator shaft... what's the big deal? Don't those regenerate until their bones have calcified?

Now, I am in Brighton going through a series of transformative meditations with an experienced guide (what are YOU doing? eating?!). I have realized what a cunt I’ve been and how I have pushed so many people out of my life to keep from having to be anything but self involved and some other things too. I don’t know that the realization has taken hold quite yet- still feel pretty into myself and relatively unhappy. However, I also did a rebirth, which burned- it was the most uncomfortable thing I have ever done. My ego is like top grade smack and burning through that/ detoxing was physically painful... could never have done that on my own. Afterward I floated in a pool of consciousness that I didn’t deserve to swim in. I still don’t. However, I’ve swam in it and not many people get a chance to do that, so I feel humbled and honestly, a little superior to everybody else who can’t seem to get there. Why aren’t I happy yet? What are you eating?!